That Night In Paris

by Sandy Barker

  “Oh yeah,” said Dani. “That guy was, like, uber hot. We are totally going. Especially if there are more like him at the pub.”

  “Um, Craig,” said Lou. “Are you okay with this?”

  He shrugged good-naturedly. “Sure. I mean, it’s a pub and I can drink here, so …”

  “Oh, that’s right—you can’t drink in the US.” I only just realised we’d given him illicit wine with dinner. We were corrupting the man-child. I’d worry about that later—there were more important matters at hand. “Jae, we are going.”

  “But—”

  “Nope. We’re going. Dani, lead the way.”

  Dani needed no coaxing—I guessed she was as intrigued by the handsome stranger as I was. She struck off at a decent pace. I had no idea if he would be there when we arrived—or if he’d want to hang out with us—but we were going to that pub.

  ***

  Dani led the way, her phone held like a divining rod. “It should be right up here.” Music and light spilled out onto the footpath in front of what was, unmistakably, the right place. The awning was bright green, a fluttering Irish flag was visible from half a block away, and the sound of Ronan Keating’s voice pumped out of the outdoor speakers. If a leprechaun had jumped out and waved us in, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

  Most importantly, though, there was a powder blue Vespa parked out front.

  I felt a tingle in my nethers and a pep in my step, then I glanced at the rest of my party. Jaelee, Dani and Lou were all very attractive women. Even if we did end up talking to the Frenchman—and he was single, and interested—there was every likelihood he would be into one of my friends.

  For all I knew, he might have been into Craig.

  Dani had navigated, but Jaelee led us into the pub. As expected—I’d travelled to Ireland and had frequented more than a few Irish pubs—it was loud, poorly lit, and smelled like beer. It made me want a Guinness very badly—actually, I preferred Caffrey’s, if they had it. I spied the tap on the bar and got a little excited.

  A hand rested on my shoulder and I turned around to meet a chest clad in a denim jacket and a white T-shirt. Oh, my God, he smells like happiness and sex. I tilted my head to meet his eyes—his Kelly-green eyes framed by thick brown brows.

  And that was when it hit me.

  “Jean-Luc.” It came out as barely a whisper.

  “Catherine.” He said it the French way, “Cat-er-in”. He’d always said it that way, even as the precocious teenager who’d refused to call me Catey. Only this time, it made me melt into a puddle of molten woman.

  If it was possible to swoon in the twenty-first century, that was what I did—and thankfully, Jean-Luc was there to catch me. As my knees buckled beneath me—traitors—he grasped my elbow and guided me to a chair where he gently helped me to sit down.

  “What’s happening?” asked an annoyed Jaelee as she peered down at me.

  There was a rushing in my brain, a flood of memories, as I tried to grasp the reality of Jean-Luc Caron standing in front of me, his hand on my shoulder and a concerned look on his face.

  I watched as he turned to Jaelee and said, “Catherine and I, we are old friends. To meet like this, it is, how would you say? Kismet.” To me, he said, “Are you okay?” His brows knitted over those gorgeous green eyes and I felt myself nodding like one of those bobble-head thingies.

  “I’ll get you some water.”

  “Caffrey’s,” I managed to squeak out. Then he was gone. Please come back. “He’s coming back, right?” I asked Lou. Panic asserted itself in my gut.

  She looked unsure. “I think so. Cat, seriously? You know him?”

  Did I know him? It was the most rhetorical question ever asked. Yes, I knew him. I knew him very well. Well, not that well, but close. Jean-Luc had been my best friend when I was—sorry, when we were—fifteen.

  I managed a slight head nod as a pint of Caffrey’s and a pint of water appeared on the table next to me. I went for the Caffrey’s first. I downed about a third of the pint before I realised that five sets of eyes were peering at me, all with the same expression.

  I put down the glass and, with what I am guessing was a scowl, told my new friends—including Lou—to bugger off. Of course, I’d lived in England long enough for it to come out as, “Can you please give us a moment?”

  Lou squeezed my hand and offered a weak smile before following the others to a nearby table.

  A different hand rested on top of mine and I looked at it. His hand—Jean-Luc’s. God, he has beautiful hands. Had they always been like that?

  I shook my head to orient myself in the present. It didn’t work. Finally, I got up the courage to meet his eyes. “Hi,” I whispered. I wondered if my voice would ever come back—and if he could hear me over Damien Rice.

  “Hi,” he replied. The crinkles were back.

  We stared at each other, him looking confident and slightly amused, and me squirming. A wave of nostalgia swept through me. “I … I’ve missed you,” I said. It was a massive understatement. He squeezed my hand and gave me a sweet but sad smile, and I swear I nearly burst into tears. When he leant back in his chair, pulling his hand away with him, I was left wanting—what exactly, I wasn’t sure.

  Jean-Luc Caron.

  I tried to dredge an image of him, younger, from my dusty memories. I couldn’t manage a full picture—only glimpses. He was my age—thirty-five—so we hadn’t seen each other for twenty years. And I couldn’t remember the last time we’d been in touch.

  Actually, yes, I could.

  It was when I started seeing Scott, when I’d pinned a photo of Jean-Luc to my mirror. Scott hadn’t liked that, and nineteen-year-old Cat—Catey—was a coward. She’d acquiesced to her new boyfriend and cut ties with the French exchange student who’d returned to Lyon years before, but who had written her every week since.

  She’d cut ties with her best friend.

  He was watching me. Perhaps he saw what played behind my eyes—a zillion feelings at once, with regret, guilt and yearning duking it out for first place.

  “You look great,” I blurted, my libido driving my tongue. At least it was better than, “You turned out so ridiculously hot that I want us to get a room maintenant.”

  He laughed, clearly at ease with himself, and ran his hand through his hair again. The ensemble of moves brought me back to the present.

  “So do you, Catherine.” I never wanted anyone to ever call me Cat again. I’d have to teach everyone I knew, including my parents, to say my name the right way, his way.

  A moment later, his compliment registered, and I was beyond glad we’d gone back to the campsite before dinner and that I didn’t look like a hag in slouchy jeans and sneakers.

  I returned his smile. “So, what do we do now?”

  “I think we reacquaint ourselves, yes?” His smile was charming, the boy I once knew peeking out. How had I not seen it when we met him on the street?

  But hang on. I looked around the pub. “Here?”

  “No. Here it is too noisy. But I have a thought—if you will come with me.”

  He wanted me to leave with him and my mind went in a dozen different directions at once—unfortunately, they all tumbled out of my mouth in a highly ineloquent soliloquy. “Come with you? I … my friends—we’re staying … Oh, God, where’s the campsite? Hang on … I think I have the name in my phone. Or you could take me back—or to the meeting place … And what about your friends?”

  The look on his face was pure amusement.

  “Sorry,” I added. He cocked his head indicating it was fine. “Let me go talk to my friends, all right? I’ll be right back. Don’t. Go. Anywhere.” I wasn’t chancing him disappearing again until I at least had his phone number.

  I sped over to the other table where the four of them had been watching everything—well, three. Jaelee was turned around in her chair speaking Spanish to a cute guy at the next table. Of course she’d met a Spaniard in an Irish pub in Paris.

  “Hi,” I said to my
friends. Jaelee stopped talking and spun around mid-sentence. “So, I know tonight was our night out, but Jean-Luc wants to catch up and I’m going with him.” No one said anything, so I leapt ahead with, “All right?”

  Jaelee’s eyes narrowed as she looked past me and threw Jean-Luc a look. Geez, woman. After a beat, the three women spoke at once.

  “Are you sure? I mean …” said Lou.

  “Go for it! I would,” said Dani.

  “No way. You’re not ditching us,” said Jae.

  Right, that settled it. I was going. “Thanks, Dan.” I grinned down at them. “So, I’ll see you guys later?”

  Lou spoke up. “Cat, I’m not sure about this. You haven’t seen him in a long time. You don’t really know him anymore.”

  “I’ve got his phone number,” Dani offered, helpfully.

  “So, you are ditching us?” Jae talked right over Dani; she looked properly ticked off.

  “Lou, like Dani said, she has his phone number …” Dani nodded, her chin perched casually on her hand. “And his name is Jean-Luc Caron, like Leslie Caron, the actress. And, I have my phone.” On the five-hour journey to Paris the day before, we’d all friended each other on Facebook and Lou had saved my number in her contacts. I had more than one lifeline to my friends in case I needed them—which I was sure I wouldn’t. “So, it’s all good, right?”

  Lou shrugged, clearly still uncomfortable about me leaving with someone she considered a stranger. I flicked my eyes to Jaelee, who was glaring at me.

  “What? You’d do the same thing.” The left side of her mouth tugged. “You would.”

  “I would not ditch my new girlfriends—and Craig—on our one night out in Paris.” I seriously doubted that, but I didn’t have time to argue. I glanced at Craig, who’d been silent throughout the whole exchange.

  “Craig?”

  He smiled, good-naturedly. “Look, if I ran into my high school sweetheart in Paris, I’d totally go hang with her.”

  “Craig, for you high school was a few months ago,” Dani pointed out.

  He shrugged, “Still, though, what are the chances Cat was going to run into him? Or that Jaelee was going to accost Cat’s ex-boyfriend on the street?” Craig had a cheeky side—I loved it. Jaelee, not so much. She backhanded him in the chest with a “Hey!” And I almost corrected the “ex-boyfriend” part, but by then it was moot.

  “So, I’m going …”

  “But how will you get back? Are you meeting us at the coach at eleven?” Mama Bear Lou again.

  “Hang on.”

  I dashed back over to Jean-Luc. “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “So, we’re staying at a campsite. It’s about thirty minutes out of the city and—”

  “I’ll take you there.”

  “You will?”

  “Mais oui.”

  “Excellent. Hold on.” I went back to my friends and took in the tableau of facial expressions. Lou still wasn’t entirely on board, Dani seemed wistful, and Jae looked like she’d sucked on a lemon. I told them I had a way back to the campsite and before I had to field any more protests, I returned to Jean-Luc and collected my bag from the back of my chair.

  Jean-Luc unfolded from his chair and ran his hand through his hair. “Tout va bien?”

  I nodded, grinning. It was impossible to play it cool with those eyes looking down at me, especially with the lovely crinkles.

  ***

  Seeing Paris at night from a luxury coach with giant windows was fabulous. Seeing it from the back of a scooter, with my arms wrapped around a very taut torso, was even more so.

  We stuck mostly to side streets, weaving through Paris’s inner arrondissements, a labyrinth of cobblestones and asphalt. We passed Musée d’Orsay, crossed the Seine at Pont Royal, and to our right was the Louvre. I pinched myself. I was in Paris.

  More notably, I was in Paris with Jean-Luc.

  Our route took us past the Opera House, which I’d seen on Georgina’s tour the night before, but could never tire of. It was a stunning building—especially at night. It looked a bit like someone had dipped a carousel in gold—only without the horses. I hummed the title song from Lloyd Webber’s Phantom as we flew by.

  We wound our way through the ninth arrondissement, climbing higher, and I guessed we were heading towards Sacré-Cœur in Montmartre. It would be my first time seeing it up close, but I wouldn’t admit that to Jean-Luc. He didn’t need to know I was a travelling neophyte.

  As we rode, I pressed myself against him and took his lead to lean into the corners. The few times we had to stop and wait for traffic, I loosened my grip on his waist, not wanting to appear too eager to lay my hands on him—although I was.

  My mind scrolled back through dozens, hundreds of memories, while my lady parts champed at the bit. He was the most spectacular man I’d had between my legs since, well, ever. I wondered if there was a way we could sleep together and reacquaint ourselves as friends.

  So, Jean-Luc, how about we head to yours and you can ravish me until the sun comes up. Then we can grab a croissant and a coffee and catch up.

  Perfect. I was sure he’d go for it.

  He leant forward as we headed up a particularly steep street and I clung to him. Above the rooftops I could see the domes of the church, all beautifully lit. Paris must have a whole lighting department, I thought—a lightbulb brigade traversing the city bringing light to one and all, no bulb left behind.

  We pulled over on the street in front of the church, and Jean-Luc rocked the scooter onto its stand. I dropped my hands from around his waist, missing the feel of him immediately. I climbed off the scooter as modestly as I could, then I took off my helmet, the spare. I hadn’t asked him why he rode around with an extra helmet, mostly because I didn’t want to know who usually wore it, whatever her name was.

  I handed it to him and he hung it on the handlebars on the opposite side to his. “This will be okay. We are not going far, and no one will take them.” It was the first time he’d spoken since we got on the scooter and he’d asked if I was comfortable. I hadn’t minded the lack of conversation throughout the ride. It had given me time to plan what I wanted to say to him.

  Besides, “Let’s go to bed,” it was something like, “I’m sorry for being a crappy friend all those years ago.”

  “Come,” he said, reaching for my hand. He held it loosely in his without entwining our fingers—like a friend would. Just friends, I thought. We’d always been “just friends” when we were at school together, which baffled my girlfriends and was fodder for teasing by everyone else—hardly anyone seemed to believe it.

  He was cute back then, sort of. He hadn’t grown into his nose then and had been only a little taller than me, but he’d had those incredible green eyes and a cheeky grin. What had drawn me to him most, though, were his wit and his mind. He’d been hands-down the smartest kid in our year, and when the Aussie boys had teased him, his retorts had been so clever, they hadn’t even known they’d been insulted. And all of that was in his second language. Actually, his third. He also spoke German. He’d taught me a bit, but I’d lost it soon after he’d returned to France.

  Twenty years. How on earth did you catch up on twenty years in one night?

  We climbed the stairs in front of Sacré-Cœur and Jean-Luc stopped. There were some small congregations on the steps, and a few people were solo. Almost everyone was looking at their phone. In Paris. I hadn’t really looked at mine much since we’d arrived—there was too much else to see.

  Jean-Luc dropped my hand, which I should have expected, but all the touching, then not touching was wreaking havoc with my lady parts. I looked up at the church. It was beautiful, but the word felt banal. I knew if Sarah was there, she’d have something clever or even poetic to say about it. She has a gift for that sort of thing.

  I saw five pointy domes, one of them big, and a bunch of ornate archways and statues. It kind of looked like a giant pavlova—a fancy one, granted, although saying it looked like a meringue hardly
encompassed the majesty of it. Majesty! I had a word.

  “It’s majestic,” I said, far too impressed with my synonym for “beautiful”.

  When I looked at him, he was smiling down at me. “If you like the basilica, look.” He placed a hand on my shoulder and turned me around.

  Oh, my. Now, that’s a view.

  Unlike the view from the Eiffel Tower, the view from Montmartre seemed more real, more Paris. The city sat below us as though cupped by giant hands, thousands of points of light punctuating the dark. I glanced at my watch—it was getting late, 10:00pm. I wished we’d met up with Jean-Luc earlier. We were leaving Paris in the morning, and a few hours together didn’t feel like enough.

  I sighed, suddenly feeling the weight of our reunion.

  “Catherine, ça va?”

  I nodded. “Yes. I’m all right. I just—” How did I say all the things I wanted to say? How did I make up for what I’d done, then catch him up on my life, and catch up on his? It would be impossible to do all that in only one night.

  “It’s been a long time. Is that it?” My gaze left the city.

  “Exactly. I don’t know where to begin.”

  His mouth pulled into a straight line. “I know. Moi aussi.” Me too. We were quiet for a moment. “Let’s get a drink,” he suggested, cutting through our shared melancholy.

  “Hah! That’s an excellent idea.”

  “Come. I know somewhere close. We can walk.” He took my hand again and I almost pulled it away. It was confusing enough just being with him without adding touching to the mix, especially as he smelled incredible. But I didn’t pull my hand away. Instead, I let him lead me to a bar down the block from the church.

  The wooden and glass door opened into a small room with a handful of tables, each lit with its own lamp. Lena Horne played softly, and it sounded like the music was coming from an actual record player. Couples sat at two of the five tables and there was an ornate wooden bar along one wall. Jean-Luc pointed to an empty table near the window before heading to the bar.

  I took the seat facing the bar, so I could watch him. He chatted easily with the bartender, who poured two glasses of white wine. He reached into his pocket and unfurled some notes, peeling one away and putting it on the bar. He then waved away the change and carried the glasses to the table.